Dear God, Let Me Live
by thewriterthatrights
Summary: "In Address of Doctor John Hamish Watson, Field Surgeon, your military service is once again presently active. You are to report to the nearest drafting division and present yourself to duty immediately." In which John is drafted, Sherlock is selfish, and war isn't as simple as it sounds. WIP, but coming strong. Will live up to the M rating in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1 The Arrival Of The Words

_Hello! I am so happy to present to you my first ever published fan fiction. I am head over heels in love with this pair and I hope that I can do them some justice in this story. I'm going to try to portray each character from different perspectives, in order to create a well-rounded story. Gosh, this is exciting :) There will be a higher rating in later chapters for many reasons. Homophobes, beware._

_Warnings: Nothing that bad in this chapter other than slight angst. Also, message me and review, please! Share with your friends (if you like it). I would love to know that people actually read what I write. _

_Keep yourself updated with my tumblr: catchabatch . tumblr . com (without the spaces)_

_Thank you so much! With that, we're off!_

* * *

Chapter One: The Arrival of the Words

Mrs. Hudson wiped her brow, eyes crinkling as she looked around at the abomination that was the flat above her. As much as she loved to take care of her Baker Street boys, they were certainly a handful. Slightly unbelieving of the mess that had managed to evolve over the course of two days, the woman shook her head as she reached to straighten the piles of paperwork that Sherlock had neglected to complete. She often wondered how Sherlock could put all of this off without being nicked from the police force.

'_That Lestrade is a very patient man._' The landlady smiled to herself, thinking fondly of the familiar Detective Inspector. '_What would Sherlock have done without him, over these past few years? And if John had never shown up…' _she abruptly drew out of her reverie. A life without John was simply impossible to imagine. He was the glue that held them all together.

The doorbell rang, signaling that the mail had arrived. Mrs. Hudson looked carefully around and began to tread back through the danger zone of Sherlock's (and John's, she reminded herself) flat. She cleaned as she went, taking some time to try and wipe the remnants of some unknown liquid off of the wall. Frowning, she scrubbed harder. '_What in the world has Sherlock done to my paper-'_

Again, the shrill twang of the doorbell resounded through the multi-story flat. Pausing, Mrs. Hudson realized that it must be someone at the door. '_How strange.'_ she mused. Mrs. Hudson very rarely got company unless a family emergency had taken place and Sherlock had recently arranged for his clients to go through Lestrade, making 221B Baker Street a very quiet place.

'DING-DONG!'

Well, at least, it had been.

"Hello! Is Dr. John Hamish Watson present?" The male voice was muffled by the door, though still crisp enough to be understood. "Urgent news for-"

"Dr. John Watson, yes, I heard you." The slightly rumpled boy -and he was only that in her eyes, a boy of no more than seventeen- withdrew slightly, straightening his stance in an attempt to look calmer than he actually was. Mrs. Hudson could tell immediately that this was not a casual visit.

"What is it, Mr…?"

"Cadet Adrian Maxim of the Sixth division of the Baskeville squadron, ma'am. I have been sent to deliver this letter to Dr. John Hamish Watson of-"

"Yes, yes, I know his title." She eyed him curiously, reaching one hand over to rest on the doorframe. '_Why is he so nervous?' _His jumpy composure perplexed her. Giving the soldier a once-over, she offered him her left hand, palm up, as she eyed the offending piece of mail. "I am John's landlady. I'll deliver it to him when he comes back. He's just gone out for some milk."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I must insist to speak with Dr. Watson. It is…" He sighed as he visibly deflated, gaze falling to the ground. "a very sensitive matter. I was given a direct order to put this in the hand of Dr. John Watson."

"Then just give it to me, mate." The sound of John's baritone voice seemed to shock the cadet back into his previous state of unrest. He jerked around, hand flying to his forehead as he rattled off his list of titles, making John have to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"At ease, cadet." John gave him a loosely constructed smile, questioning him. "On what orders are you here? Did Mycroft send you with an invitation this time? That would be a step up from the usual abduction. None the less, I'm not coming." He sniffed, a grin lighting his features. "Sarah's sent me home from the surgery for vacation. I'm on strict orders to take a well-deserved kip and that is _exactly_ what I intend to do." John grinned to himself as he stepped around the man in front of him. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson." He kissed her on the cheek, making her giggle and swat at his arm as he made his way inside the flat.

"Dr. Watson!" the cadet protested, although a bit weakly. The faintly desperate tone in his voice made an unconscious shiver run down John's spine. It was just enough to make him turn around, dread beginning to fill his gut. "I have a letter." He held it out, hand shaking ever-so-slightly.

John just stared bleakly, disbelieving, as he immediately recognized the reason for the boy's anxiety. The feeling was infectious.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson touched his shoulder, still not understanding the meaning of the whole situation. His face stayed perfectly blank as he stepped forward and slid the letter from the boy's trembling hand.

"Dismissed." John almost whispered. However, the unwavering finality in his voice was enough to make the young soldier start to choke up. Mrs. Hudson was still amid the unknowing, glancing hard between the doctor and the young cadet.

"Boys, what in the world has happened to make everyone act so strange? What is that, John?" Her wrinkled hand tried to tug the beige envelope from John's tight fist as she began to rationalize the discontent emanating from the delivery boy. "Oh please, John. By my age, you've realized that there's no shame in being old enough to retire. Think of it as the next adventure, dearie." She tried to catch his eye with her grin, but let it fall from her face when he seemed to ignore her efforts. "Why are you being so difficult?" He closed his eyes tightly for a moment before handing the letter to Mrs. Hudson. She scoffed slightly, giving him another look before reading the front of the envelope.

Hot tears began to prick behind her eyelids. Mrs. Hudson tore viciously at the parchment before prying the letter from its home with tender fingers, hoping against hope that she was wrong. She _had_ to be wrong. Mrs. Hudson took a quivering breath as she stopped momentarily before allowing herself to read the top line of the letter aloud.

"_In Address of Doctor John Hamish Watson, Field Surgeon, your military service is presently active. You are to report to the nearest drafting division and present yourself to duty-" _she stopped, feeling her heart rate soar and stop in rapid succession. Her brown eyes flashed from the paper to John's face, light glinting off of the moisture that had accumulated there.

The dread was palpable in the tiny hallway, slicking itself like dirty oil over every surface, tarnishing every groove of their lives in a mere instant- inescapable.

The resounding tear of paper was almost too much for John. He allowed himself a momentary respite as he sank against the wall, listening with ringing ears as the letter was shoved haphazardly back into the envelope.

The first tear fell on the long sleeve of her sky-colored dress, seeping into the knit fabric to create a dark navy circle.

The second rolled down her right cheek as she read and re-read the letter in her mind's eye, shaking her head, looking for the mistake she was certain that she had missed.

"John, you've already done so much- your shoulder!" she protested angrily, crossing the small space between them as she took John in her arms. "They can't make you go! You've lost so much already! So much...they can't take you..." the tremor in her voice was enough to break John's heart, his chest suddenly feeling like a gaping hole. He kept his breathing controlled as he secured the small woman in his arms as she softly hit the wall behind them. "It's not fair. Not fair..."

The other tears were caught by John's thumb as he tilted her head up to meet his gaze, "No time for that, now. You've got to be brave." He pulled her into his side as he moved to shut the door, letting her cling to him, a silent sob wracking her frail body. "_We've _got to be brave." His words tasted bitter, tainted, forgotten in his mouth for a moment as he took a shuddering breath. "For him."


	2. Chapter 2 The Burning Paralysis

**AN: I am so excited that this story is getting so many reads already! I love this fandom more than I could ever express in words. You guys are positively amazing. I already have to send out some thanks- to my sister, for listening to me for over an hour as I tried to come up with a synonym for tea cup; to my grandmother, for allowing me to bring my gadgets 'round (gotta love the grans); and finally, to all of the people that have read and reviewed my story so far. I am very grateful to have such an audience :D**

**And a very, very, VERY special thanks to my amazing beta, rawrfullion, who made it through 4 drafts of this chapter in just a few days and who I now owe my soul and first born to :)**

**Also, about my writing style: thoughts are in italics, everything else is regular, except for dreams and flashbacks (bold and italics). If you find any errors, PLEASE report them to me.**

**I'm not really sure yet about how updates are going to work. I'm going to try to update every two or three days, but if I get taken by writer's block, I'll try to keep the updates weekly at the very least. My men are very fun to write- and this story has been brewing away for a while. So please keep reviewing! It sparks my interest, my creativity, and in the words of Sherlock Holmes, "Genius needs an audience."**

**Plus, you get to read from Sherlock's perspective for the first time! :D Rejoice!**

**Warnings: angst, angst, johnlock vibes, angst, a nightmare, slight mentions of murder/gore, mentions of a shower, don't like don't read, Sherlock confusion, etc.**

**Sorry for the long AN! So, without further adieu, I offer the next chapter!**

* * *

Chapter 2: The Burning Paralysis

John tilted his tea cup back, lips poised around the raised edge of the delicate china as his mouth was breached by an influx of cold liquid; the heat having long left the tiny confines of the cup. He clutched it harshly in an attempt to still the rapidly swirling thoughts that plagued his mind.

_Would Sherlock ever take manage to take care of himself if John wasn't there to pester him?_

___Who would be there to shoot down Sherlock's more vicious enemies when he was too wrapped up in the game to care for his own safety?_

_How would he himself survive without Sherlock? Just a few months ago, he would have been overjoyed upon his draft. But now...without Sherlock, adrenaline didn't feel the same. His muscles ached, instead of burning, his mind was blank, instead of racing to catch up. It would be like switching from regular to decaf coffee. The taste was the same, but the buzz was maddeningly absent._

Mrs. Hudson let out one more shaky breath before tossing down the rest of her brandy.

"So that's it, then? We won't tell him." Her tone was pinched, caught between sadness and finality. The familiar sparkle in her hazel eyes was muted, gauzed over with subtly pulsing fear. "I suppose it's for the best. We don't want him to get…well, you know." She reached for John's hand across the table, cradling it in hers for a moment. She brushed the inside of his palm reassuringly. "We'll make it through this, John, just you see. There's more out there to be had, dearie. More sights to see. More tea to brew." She gave him a tight smile as she squeezed his fingers, stood and brought the two dishes to the small sink.

John let his eyelids linger closed a moment longer than they should. His head felt too light, like all of the weight of his brain had evaporated away, leaving nothing but a hollow image of itself.

He let out a heavy sigh before speaking, his index finger beating out a rapid rhythm on the edge of the table. His leg was beginning to ache. _Damn nerves._

"I think I'll go back upstairs and write down Sherlock's latest curiosities. I've got readers to appease, you know. I'm actually quite famous." He winked lamely at her as he stood, pushing his chair in. The landlady turned towards him fully, keeping most of her weight on the counter behind her. Her eyes fanned cautiously over his face as he spoke. "Don't want him to find me lazing about, now, do I?" He turned his gaze away from her slightly accusing stare, trudging toward the direction of the door.

"Tell him." He almost didn't hear it. Wouldn't have heard it, if his subconscious hadn't reached out to grasp it, pulling the words from the teeming silence as his mind extracted the seemingly miniscule meaning from the phrase and amplified it tenfold; shattering his careful focus as it rang, tinny and concentrated, in his ears- louder than if she'd shouted it.

His feet stilled, left hand quivering as he tried to drown the less than acceptable thoughts of Sherlock – just as he had tried to do ever since the first of them had arisen. John knew that she meant well, but surely, even someone as batty as her could see the obvious repercussions to that particular piece of conversation.

"I know that it might not be easy. I know how he can be, John. I've lived with him a lot longer than you have, love. But sometimes, in extra special circumstances, there are rewards that may just be worth the risk of a broken heart." Her words flew like bullets across the small room, every utterance hitting him with small pangs of guilt, perforating his skin.

It was a chilling sensation, to say the least, when your happiness becomes buried under an avalanche of doubt.

"Some thoughts are better left unsaid." John replied flatly. He resumed his journey, with some difficulty. He knew that she meant well, but there was a point when even John's composure wavered toward instability. "I'll take the time I have left with him." He heard her intake of breath as she tried to mute it- to no avail. "And, Mrs. Hudson,…" he stopped mid-step as he cleared his throat to try and avoid further embarrassment. It felt like his throat was closing up- every breath becoming slightly harder to take. "Thank you. For everything."

The door swung opened and closed with a gentle click. She stood there, listening to the thump of his footsteps going up the stairs and swallowed hard.

Mrs. Hudson turned the water on as hot as she could stand it while she stood at the sink in front of the window, washing the cups for far too long, leaving fresh fears to percolate in her head. The scalding water sloshed across the slick surface of the mugs, scourging away any and all remnants of their afternoon tea.

She always saw what Sherlock meant to John; never missing the intensity in John's gaze as he attempted to keep up with Sherlock's brilliant and constant babble, the reverence in his words as he spoke of their latest adventure, the way he would naturally gravitate toward Sherlock in any and all situations. She recognized the absolute trust and loyalty in John's actions. She knew his feelings like she knew her own address. John wore his heart on his sleeve (at least unconsciously).

She also knew that Sherlock had changed. Ever since John showed up, Sherlock's life had been blown into a brilliant flurry of activity. John was calming where Sherlock was abrasive, he was smooth where Sherlock was rough. Easy, where Sherlock was complicated. He was good for the genius; healthy. They first 'healthy' thing she'd ever seen Sherlock do for himself was invite John to stay with him.

Briefly, she entertained the idea that Sherlock still didn't know about John's affections.

A genuine laugh burst joyously from her throat, shocking the stagnant air of the dining room into sudden unrest as it left a promise of hope in its wake.

The idea was truly ridiculous. Sherlock knew, like always. He had probably known from the start. The only question haunting her now was less of sadness, but more of pure curiosity: what was he waiting for?

She let the thought bounce around in her head for a few more minutes as she dried the dishes and put them in their respective cupboards. _Boys will be boys._ She smiled, feeling considerably lighter than she had before. They would work this out.

All they needed was some time.

* * *

John crossed through the entrance of the upstairs flat, looking around as he quickly confirmed Sherlock's absence. He grabbed his coat and turned to leave the flat.

He padded back down the stairs, emotions kept in perspective at the soft crunch of paper in his pocket. He steeled himself for the brazen cold as he opened the door.

He stepped out into the frigid air and shut the door behind him. He set off to the enlistment site, walking mechanically as his mind crawled behind in anguish.

John knew that he would eventually be forced to tell Sherlock about the draft, but how would he take it?

_'With a grain of salt.'_ His mind provided bitterly, setting a fresh wave of misery to swirl lazily through his thoughts.

'_I wonder how long it would take him to notice that I was gone. I come and go all the time without consequence to him, so what would a few more months matter?' _The ideas affected his mind like the sting of a wasp; sharp, but made of liquid fire. It felt like he was burning from the inside out, little flames blooming with every sentence as they licked at his mind. It was torture, pure torture as his mind lit up like a furnace. He could not escape the pain here; not in his own mind.

John glanced around at the people passing him as he walked the streets.

_'Cattle.' _he judged, as nausea began to prod his stomach. '_All cattle.'_

He wondered if they could see it. The fire behind his eyes. The shroud of darkness that clouded his vision, his thoughts, plagued him in his own mind.

'_Sherlock would tire of waiting for me.' _The notion sprung to the forefront of his mind with frightening clarity. '_He would find a new companion. Or just stay by himself. He had preferred solitude before I stomped into his life. He'd be much better off without a blundering idiot acting like a lost puppy around him.'_

As terrible as they seemed, each thought was rooted in a truth that was far too familiar to him. Sherlock had been alone before John; he had managed to keep himself alive for the 28 years prior to the army doctor, so what would keep him from prospering again in isolation? It was a useless battle that John had been trying to fight with himself.

He wasn't useful to Sherlock. In fact, he usually got himself stuck in the way of Sherlock's genius; tying him down with physical inabilities, or constantly nagging him about food.

But that was the problem- John couldn't help but get in the way. He needed to protect Sherlock in a way that he could not explain, even if he had wanted to.

When John Watson first met Sherlock Holmes, the first word that came to mind was, '_brilliant'. _And he was.

A bit too brilliant for his own good, in fact. He had managed to captivate John; showing him a new way to live his life and a new way to view the world. After being stuck in an ignominiously boring routine of living, John was shell-shocked. And Sherlock was the light that broke through all of that drab darkness; something that he clutched onto immediately.

John had found himself growing closer and closer to the genius until it got to a point where he began to have dreams about Sherlock. They started innocently enough, but escalated quickly to dreams that would leave him waking in the middle of the night with panting breaths, sweaty sheets, and immense sexual frustration.

Now, he had an extremely difficult time functioning properly around the man. Sometimes, John would become suddenly clumsy as Sherlock brushed by in the cramped kitchen. John was always treading on eggshells around him, and for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to admit the cause to the whole mess.

Finally, one night, John had a dream where Sherlock simply stated, 'I love you.' Nothing more and nothing less. Just those three words.

The next night, it happened again.

The night after that, almost as soon as his eyelids had closed, Sherlock was there with those three words.

So there it was. John was in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes. He was in love with a sociopathic genius who stored human body parts in the butter tins, conducted toxic experiments in the kitchen, and introduced himself with sneer, a sarcastic comment, and a long-awaited answer.

John knew that all of his affections were for naught, however, the day after they'd met for the first time. He would never be able to wipe the conversation from that night away; it was ingrained into his very existence. John had asked if he was in a relationship with anyone, in order to make conversation. After a few quick retorts, Sherlock had silenced him with one phrase.

_'I'm married to my work.' _

That had been all it took to crumble the world of one John Watson.

John turned onto the street that led to the military facility; allowing his mind to wander a bit more.

Ever since then, he had kept his emotions close, trying to refrain from the more intimate instincts he was having. The worst were the small things. Like when he would see a particularly uncooperative piece of hair separate itself from the rest of Sherlock's curls. John would be overtaken by the unexplainable urge to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The temptation was sometimes dizzying in its toxicity.

Then there was the time that Sherlock had begun to fall ill. John, being a doctor, stayed faithfully by Sherlock as he fought the cold- bringing him all the things that Sherlock requested- water, toast (John would NEVER refuse to bring Sherlock food, if he asked for it), electrolytes. Finally, Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch after an entire day of snapping at John to stop trying to take his temperature.

John was stuck, transfixed by the sight of Sherlock unconscious. His eyes closely followed the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, the intake of breath emitting a sound akin to whistling.

_'Blimey._' John thought in awe. '_Sherlock, genius consulting detective, snores like a whistle.'_ He came back to himself over an hour later, horrified at the sheer amount of time he had just sat there, watching the other man sleep.

John pushed open the door to the recruitment office, walking briskly to the front desk.

"Where do the drafted check in?" The man sitting behind the desk looked young. 20, at the oldest. Dark hair, light eyes, heavy stature. The man glanced at him in appraisal before gesturing to the hallway on his left.

"Return recruit, correct?" John nodded. "Name?"

"John Hamish Watson."

The man muttered something under his breath, writing on the notepad in front of him. "They'll take your letter and give you instructions down the hall, seventh door to the left."

John followed his directions without another word, winding his way down the long hallway until he reached the seventh entrance. The door had been left open, and older soldiers were distributed around the room, talking to each other in excitement. John caught fragments of war stories and granted himself some privacy. He walked to the back of the small room, taking a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs as he waited for a lieutenant to arrive.

After a few minutes had passed, John had gathered quite a bit of information on his comrades. He smirked, listening as one of the men retold his story to a fourth man, with a different ending than any of the other three. The blonde man opposite him was nervously secluded, glancing around hurriedly before turning to wring his hands.

Finally, a man entered the room, causing everyone to go silent.

"Gentlemen, your service has been activated in the cause of a draft. You have been called upon to serve Queen and country. In the name of your prior service, do you accept?" The reply chorused in the small room. "Yes, Sir."

"You will each be receiving your particular guidelines and briefings in the mail soon. You have 30 days until departure." He made eye contact with each of the soldiers in the room. "Spend it well."

The other men turned to give each other knowing looks, worried side-glances. John sat stock-still. The man droned on about responsibilities and their duties as contributing members of Britain, etc. etc. He waited for the one phrase that would mean something to him.

"You are dismissed, soldiers."

John stood quickly, avoiding contact with the other men as he wound his way out of the large building. He opened the doors to the street and mustered up the willingness to dump himself into the moving crowd once again.

The sidewalks were much more crowded now than they had been this morning. John allowed himself to be swept away by the movement of the people around him. He didn't really care when he got back, anyway.

30 days. 30 days of anguish and hidden amusement and Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

He sighed deeply, conceding to the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He let it crash over him in waves- to toss around him like the crowd of the city; ruthless. John was defenseless to its fury. He tried to ride it like a storm, but ended up swirling his mind even deeper into the murk of sadness.

He felt like he was in mourning- for what could have been, perhaps. _More like mourning for something that was never there to begin with._ His mind tore holes in the corpse of his happiness, laughing at its foolishness as it lay bleeding in his mind's eye.

Suddenly John was in front of the door of his flat. He wondered how he would pass the time.

_'Well, Sherlock still isn't home yet.' _he contemplated. '_Sarah__ did send me home on vacation. Maybe I will take that nap.'_ He ambled up the second set of stairs. He looked around at his drab room. Beige was everywhere. He took a shuddering breath before changing into pyjamas.

He was suddenly exhausted, mind finally taking a rest as he clambered into bed. The sheets were pulled up to his chin, body warming under the soft fabric. Within minutes, his breathing evened out and he was asleep.

* * *

**_John reeled back, feeling as if he had been physically slapped. He felt dizzy as he dared to look at the tall man shouting at him. _**

**_'John, how could you be so daft? I've lived with you for over a year! For Christ's sake, can't you bloody tell that I. Am. Not. Interested! I told you when we met that I am married to my work. Obviously, that means nothing to you. Get out, John. Don't come back; you'll just distract me.' Sherlock glided over to his microscope as he turned his back on John, leaving him cold. What was left, without Sherlock?_**

**_John's face was wet; tears streaming soundlessly down his face. He clutched at the hope that he could fix his mistake._**

**_'Sherlock, I'm sorry. I promise...we can just go back to the way it was before.' John attempted, only to stop coldly when the man turned slowly in his chair. 'I don't want to lose you.' he pleaded._**

**__****_'Too late.' _**

**_John blanched in horror as t_****_he long face and chocolate curls started to move- to morph into someone else. Moriarty's chilling features blossomed over the ghost of familiar cheekbones. Bow lips were replaced by a thin sneer. Dread filled John's body, vanquishing the last worn threads of his hope. It felt as if ice water were filling his veins, spidering through his body like a virus as it filled every capillary, splintering into icicles to puncture his heart, his lungs, his stomach._**

**_'You're nothing to lose, from my perspective. Go. I don't need you here.' The man crossed the room in two strides, bringing his face suddenly too close to John's. 'He's mine now, Johnny Boy.' The man reached inside of Sherlock's wool coat to produce a small caliber gun, twirling it once before rounding it on himself._**

**_The trigger went off with a BANG!_**

**_Red._**

**_Too much red._**

**_'SHERLOCK!'_**

Lungs on fire. Shuddering breath.

John's chest heaved as he attempted to reap as much oxygen as he could from the surrounding air. His fingers clutched violently at the sheets which had trapped him during his unconscious fits of thrashing. The dread that pooled in his gut threatened to make him sick. He sprang out of bed, bounding to the bathroom.

Once through the threshold of the door, John dragged open the plastic shower curtain and stripped off his pajamas. He climbed into the water's icy spray, his pulse racing hard. He clutched at his shoulder as it throbbed painfully (it always did when his heart rate went up). He instantly regretted taking the afternoon kip. His nightmares always seemed to afflict him more often when he tried to sleep during the day.

He let his knees go out from under him, carelessly sliding to the floor of the shower. The incessant drops pricked his skin like needles, splashing relentlessly over his body. The sting of the water cleared his head and allowed him to focus on the solid pings of reality rather than the murky oblivion of his dreams.

What to make of it, though?

John inhaled, and a cloud of the offending vapor raced down his windpipe, sending him into a violent coughing spell. He doubled over, coughing so hard that he was very nearly retching. He coughed until his abdomen began to ache from the effort, until his vision once again became blurred around the edges.

After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal and the strange nightmare rushed back full-force, choking him with its brutal terror.

_Why did Sherlock's face turn into Moriarty? _he groaned, tilting his head back while he let the cold water splash over his face, washing the sweat from his body like a torrent of crisp awareness. _I'm about to go back onto the front lines of a World War as nothing but a fucking paramedic, and my nightmares are about Sherlock's reaction to my FEELINGS? What the bloody hell is wrong with my mind?_

He slumped heavily against the wall of the cubicle, taking a moment before realizing that he might as well actually clean up. He soaped up a washcloth and set to work, mechanical efficiency taking over his movements as he tried to empty his mind. _I'll have to get used to taking quick showers again_, he thought bitterly as the water cascaded around him.

As he washed away the vestiges of his most recent illusion, John began to formulate a plan.

He would become numb. That's what it would take, after all. No one could survive the rugged anguish of war without compartmentalizing the deep-rooted bits of themselves; the kind-hearted, the soft-willed, the (Dare he think it?) love-riddled.

Sherlock was not the only member of society that was able to erase pieces of himself. As alien of a concept as it seemed to most people, to John, it was just another hidden piece of his composition. How else was he expected to function, after experiencing the horrors of Afghanistan?

John clenched his fists, skin tingling under the too-cold water, as he centered himself.

_'There will not be time for me to traipse around the nearest city, following a sociopath blindly through the streets._  
_There will not be time for shared glances in the hallway, hearts beating fast, as the atmosphere shifts to something a little more meaningful._  
_There will not be time for Sherlock.'_

John closed his eyes carefully, beginning to surface old memories of their adventures. He would take one final look at them before shoving them behind a brick wall in his mind; painstakingly fabricated and guarded by his every defense. Every smile, every laugh, and every trace of something that resembled more-than-friends was locked away.

_'It's better this way._' he told himself. _'I should have done this from the very first inkling of joy.' _John's muscles were beginning to feel numb, the cold overriding his tactile senses- furthering the processes of his mind.

John decided that he would tell Sherlock when he had a week left. It would be enough time for him to adjust to the transition, providing that John would be able to set up an alternative part time caretaker for the consulting detective.

Sherlock would survive- no, thrive without his presence. John just had to keep himself together long enough to get away.

* * *

_How in the world, after being in my presence for over a year, can John still be this daft? _Sherlock mused, long fingers tapping over the keys of John's laptop like a storm of tiny birds over a school of fish; diving, pecking, and surfacing to repeat. Sherlock often borrowed John's laptop, if only to enjoy the range of reactions he received from the army doctor. Depending on John's mood, he could respond with anything from thunderous anger to the most virulent amusement. _  
_

John always managed to produce some type of reaction worth watching. At least, in Sherlock's opinion. John was an ever-changing entity in his life; someone who surprised him, if only by doing exactly what Sherlock had predicted. That hadn't happened before John.

Everything about that man was fascinating to him. John's innate ability to deal with people was simply fantastic.

Sherlock would always watch with careful eyes as John talked to the victims that they had rescued at the end of a case- sincerely amazed at his ability to calm even the most toxic of personalities with nothing more than a few minutes of dialogue. Sherlock would find himself transfixed by him- mentally cataloging, with perfect detail of course, the slight changes in John's face. The way his eyes would crinkle just at the edges, when he would smile in support or comfort; the way that the color of his irises would shift when John had been taken by a particularly hard piece of evidence, as he tried with so much difficulty to match Sherlock's prowess.

More recently, Sherlock had found something new and infinitely more interesting about John Watson.

John had this enchanting way of attempting to be deceptive- he had done it to Sherlock the moment they'd met. Due to his military training, John was usually able to hide his more brash emotions during a case. At least until something he cared about was threatened. Then, Sherlock truly got a show.

Because when John was uncontrollable, he was certainly an eyeful.

Sherlock shuffled on the couch, closing his eyes as he properly allowed his mind to pull up the scene from a few months earlier- when they had been trapped at the pool.

**'John.' _Sherlock thought dumbly as he stared at his doctor, loaded down with enough explosives to flatten the entire city block. _**

**_He stood there, paralyzed, for what he recognized as far too long, assessing John's physical state: unharmed, as of yet. Still stable on his feet. Accelerated heart rate, body running on a severe adrenaline rush. His perceptions roved John's body, checking for any apparent signs of physical stress or harm. His stance was defensive- and Sherlock was suddenly overtaken with an acrid sense of humor. None of John's military training would be of use here. John was left to stand there- bare- vulnerable- as Moriarty laughed in his face. The perfect trap. After thoroughly appraising the rest of John's body, he finally reached John's eyes._**

**_Sherlock was afraid. For the first, novel, incomprehensible time, Sherlock felt genuine fear. It was similar to pain._**

**_However, he had no knowledge of how to describe the way that John's gaze held his with such strength._**

**_Sherlock knew little of the solar system, or the rules that governed it. However, he was familiar with the concept of gravity. The term itself is defined as 'the force that attracts a body toward the center of the Earth, or any other physical body having mass'. _**

**_John is obviously a physical body, made of mass. _**

**_John is also, unequivocally a force of attraction.  
_**

**_John was drawing him in._**

**_John's gravity was inescapably, irrevocably, and emphatically _immense.**

**_Fear. Anger. Repulsion. Revenge. Humiliation. Fascination. Confusion. Desperation. Recognition. Blinding terror._**

**_All of them fought for recognition, surfacing and suffocating, as they made their way across John's features. So many emotions seemed to be teeming under the barely contained prison of John's body. His eyes were screaming for help, for an answer, for a _solution. _But none came. No satisfaction of being able to have a plan- no balm to soothe his mind whatsoever. He was stranded, desolate, in the large room. It suddenly felt like an aquarium. John shuddered- unable to contain the momentary weakness as he hysterically attempted to make sense of their predicament._**

**_Sherlock felt like John's emotions had been shot into his body like an intravenous drug, filling him to the brim with foreign concepts and offering him nowhere to hide from it all. Trapped in his own skin- the way he imagined the general populous. John looked as if he was about to do something rash, but Sherlock locked their gazes and told him firmly to stop, beseeching his more logical side._**

**_John obeyed._**

Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie by a loud thump. The sound bounded down the stairs from John's room, sending a slight shake through the ceiling. Sherlock's electric mind took only a mere fraction of a second to determine what exact course of action caused the noise, frowning slightly as he remembered John's unfortunate subconscious knack for summoning the worst nightmares during the middle of the day.

He momentarily considered checking on John, to ensure that he wasn't in too much emotional distress, but thought better of it. Sherlock had absolutely zero perception of social norms and comforting techniques. What if John wasn't okay, or he was in need of emotional consolation? What if John asked Sherlock for the one thing that he could not provide; understanding?

Sherlock brushed the thought away.

Anyway, being in John's presence, when charged with emotions, had definitely crossed the boundary from 'a bit not good' to 'dangerous ground'. John somehow managed to override Sherlock's inherent neutrality, puncturing his composure in the worst of circumstances.

Sherlock had found himself in the middle of a case, when he should be working incessantly, in the net of John's perturbations, unable to focus. Efficiency was at an all time low. It was becoming ridiculous.

John's emotions had evolved into something unpredictable and infectious; something that had Sherlock greatly alarmed. He had found that whenever John began to exhibit great emotional euphoria, Sherlock had no ability to refrain from mirroring John's wide smile; or even the opposite.

During their last case together, they had been in the pursuit of a serial murderer for over a week, traveling day and night across the country as the man left bloody deaths everywhere he dared to traipse. He was sloppy and used medieval weapons, meant only for cruelty. John was physically and emotionally exhausted, and even Sherlock was beginning to feel the strain on his transport

They were finally able to track the man down in Cardiff, John holding the small building as Sherlock endeavored to talk the man down from his suicide attempt.

It had been nearly 30 minutes of confrontation later when the man acquiesced to Sherlock's cajoling. He lowered his gun, dropped it at his side, and slid the weapon across the floor with a terrible squeal of metal on cement.

In a flash, the man pulled a serrated dagger from his hip and ripped through his jugular as a wail clawed its way out of John's throat; obscene in its desperation.

Sherlock was suddenly wracked with the feelings that John shouted to the open room: anger, frustration, and sadness. He actually felt angry tears burgeoning in his eyes, obstructing his vision. He shook his head, in a failed attempt to toss the thoughts out of his head.

Instead, he had been stuck with a furious John, an aching body, and a long trip home to ponder just what exactly this army doctor had managed to do to him in a little over a year.

The rumble of water pipes swarmed the room; signaling the beginning of John's shower. _Perhaps that will help to calm him._ Sherlock mused, hopeful for the return of his friend's generally sunny disposition. Sherlock saved his report, recording the final details of his newest experiment onto to fuzzy computer screen, and rose gracefully from the couch.

His blue silk robe swished as he made his way into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's health habits were becoming somewhat swayed by John's presence, as well. He ate much more often- even occasionally sitting down to share a meal with John, much to the man's delight. Sherlock loved to please John. His eyes would simply glow when he triumphed (or at least, Sherlock allowed him the illusion of a success) in a fight over food.

_'How sentimental.' _he thought in distaste as he debated whether he should go ahead and eat something, or wait for John. It was around two in the afternoon, and he had no cases on, so food would not be too much of a deterrent of The Work.

He decided to put some toast on for now, pushing the button down on the small machine as the bread disappeared behind its metal sides. The contraption began ticking, counting down to completion. Sherlock hesitated- berating himself for his weakness- before he filled the kettle with water and set it to boil.

Even in simple things, like making tea, Sherlock was changing. Curse John Watson. He'd made a domestic out of him.

* * *

The water shut off, sending a resounding thud through the old plumbing. John pulled the shower curtain back, stepping carefully out of the slick porcelain shower as he grabbed a towel from the shelf in the bathroom.

He wrapped himself in the fluffy linen, succumbing to his more basic indulgences. Even someone as coarse as John could enjoy a soft towel.

The steam swirled around him- wrapping John in a warm comfort, and victoriously extinguishing the rest of his drowsy fears. With his mind more conscious, he was able to begin to control his trepidation. After all, it was just a dream.

John reached out a hand to smear the fog from the oval mirror, gazing softly at his reflection. He approached it with a clinical mindset- fingers fanning over the mottled flesh that webbed over the slight indentation on his left shoulder. The skin there was still sensitive to the touch- even the slightest brush of his fingers lit his senses with a profanely augmented version of the touch.

His mind was flooded with the frighteningly vivid phantom pain, which sometimes accompanied his scar. He failed to contain his cringe as his mind summoned the one sticking image from that incident.

**_'John!' Andrew shouted madly, applying a dizzying amount of pressure on John's fresh wound._**

**_He didn't even feel it yet. His mind was caught in a time warp, processing the course of events at the pace of a snail._**

**_John saw bullets flying, heard screams, tasted the salty anguish of war on his tongue._**

**_He reeled, the edges of his vision beginning to darken and shrink away, shrouding his thoughts in a deep crimson tincture._**

**_His mouth hung open lethargically, gaping in the scorching heat, opening and closing like a fish out of water. John's eyes began to water, the sand scratching his pupils, and furthering the distortion in his sight._**

**_Too quickly, his mind and body caught up and flung him head-first into sync. _**

**_A white-hot shock of blistering pain rushed from the wound, along with the damned fountain of blood, as a slow torture licked at his brain. _**

**_He was drowning. That was the only way to describe it. Drowning in blood and dust and solitude, despite the entire faction of soldiers that had surrounded him._**

**'Why not die?'_ his mind posed, '_It would be easier than this constant push and pull, this infinite cycle of death and destruction. Die here and now, or somewhere else and later.' _he managed a few deep, hysterical breaths before closing his eyes, allowing his mind to fog over with the liquid silence that tempted him with numbness, the promise of unconsciousness proving itself to be far too alluring for the circumstances. _**

**_'John, don't you DARE do this to me!" the cadet cried, head whipping wildly, looking for the aid vehicle. It was nowhere to be seen. 'John!'_**

John sighed, coming back to himself. Perhaps the PTSD wasn't entirely a result of boredom, as per Sherlock's deductions. He often wondered if the war had driven him a bit mad.

He exited the bathroom, dressing in a beige jumper and comfortable pants for movement. He never knew when Sherlock was going to drag him around London, chasing criminals on foot.

He looked in the mirror before heading downstairs again.

He couldn't see it. Not just by looking.

There was no black cloud over his head. No steam billowing from his ears. No fire behind his eyes. He tried to smile, but it seemed plastic.

It would do for now.


	3. Chapter 3 The Slight Confusion

**AN: Thank you all for your R & R's! I appreciate you reading this so much. Sorry for taking so long to update! I've been busy with summer work and such. It's taken a lot of late nights, but I am happy to present to you chapter 3!**

**There isn't really a lot of John in this chapter- it's mostly Sherlock's POV. **

**Buuuuuuuuuuut, I've also brought in some more characters! Plot galore! Bask in its glory! :D**

**There are a lot of things that bring new warnings before you read this chapter, so please read this before you proceed.**

**WARNINGS: angst, male/male, confusion, lots of Sherlock-speak, ****dark themes, dom/sub themes, reference of a stimulated male body part, UST, blood play (kind of), drug use, plot, MorMor**

**DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ. **

**Do like, R and R, PLEASE!**

**Now, without further interruption, ENJOY!**

* * *

Sherlock sighed deeply as he heard John's loud footsteps trumping down the stairs. He lifted himself up to sit on the counter, waiting for John to come into the kitchen and berate him. The kettle whistled softly, making the consulting detective cringe. The sound washed over him like a cold bath- he could never quite acclimate himself to the screech of the small object. He often wondered if it would be worth his time to engineer a different alert tone for the device. With the obscene amount of tea that John brews, the argument was becoming stronger with every day.

"Sherlock, where is my laptop?" He had to hide a smile. An array of odd sensations filled Sherlock's chest; warmth, comfort, near-excitement. It was terrifying.

"Why? Do you need it?" Sherlock tempted lightly, trying to fish a particularly strong reaction from John.

"Not really." The army doctor wandered into the kitchen, looking somewhat lost. Sherlock's brow wrinkled as he tried to identify the emotion tied to this particular arrangement of John's facial features.

_Glazed eyes _(still stuck in the after thoughts of the nightmare?).

_Defensive body stance _(emotional instability usually leads to an increased need for unconscious physical defense)_._

_Eyebrows upturned a few degrees _(questioning his own ability to retain his composure).

_?_

It was an entirely new combination of John's features.

_Brilliant, _Sherlock thought. He loved when John was particularly intriguing. Moments like this were simply marvelous.

"John, what was your dream about?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. Could it be that the horrors of Afghanistan still haunted him, even though he'd truly missed the rush of battle? John had long since become accustomed to gore and death. How could something that John took unconscious pleasure from still be giving him discomfort?

"Nothing," John answered sharply. Sherlock turned, focusing his cold eyes on the shorter man. It looked as if John had warped his stature on purpose; he looked even shorter than usual, and none of John's familiar attitude could be seen.

What had changed? It looks as though John had wiped his usual appearance away, making room for this drab personality. There was no life behind John's eyes; the dark orbs carrying only a sense of searching. For what, however, Sherlock had no idea. He seemed more numb than angry. Emotion was a tricky dilemma.

_Requires more observation._

"You're acting different. Why?" Sherlock demanded, hoping that his persistence would reward him with some new information about John's personality. John turned to him, teacup in hand.

"Drop it." John's grip tightened, breath rushing into his lungs as he faced Sherlock fully; his voice monotone but unequivocally firm, jaw clenched tightly. His green eyes locked with Sherlock's solid gaze and they just stood there, stuck in each other's challenge.

Sherlock Holmes was able to see more in one second than most people would see in an hour.

His eyes roamed John's face, searching for any of his usual tells. He found none. Only the unyielding lines of a soldier ready for battle; face lightly creased by over-exposure to the elements, eyes dull with over-use, the lines at the edges of his mouth rigid and turned down in either distaste or emotional upheaval.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't tell for once.

There was something peculiar about the way that John held eye contact. It was different from John's usually reassuring glances. He was blank. Guarded. Sherlock couldn't gather a single thing in the twelve and a half seconds that it took for John to turn away. He was starting to become rather frustrated.

However, he knew that John could not sustain a facade of that intensity for very long. If he hadn't been Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn't have observed the one thing to clue him in to John's strange behavior.

As John's eyes left Sherlock's, John turned away, left shoulder leading his body. His eyes were downcast, but just before he was out of Sherlock's range of vision, a torrent of pain crashed over John's features.

_Creased brow._

_Tightly shut eyes._

_Mouth set in a grimace._

Sherlock was quite perturbed. Where had this attitude come from?

"I'm going out," John offered quietly. He grabbed his coat and slid through the open door of the flat without so much as a meager 'goodbye'.

Sherlock stilled himself, listening for the door downstairs to open and close before bouncing off of the counter and launching himself into a nervous pace.

'_What am I doing wrong? She told me that it would work to just...damn woman.'_ Sherlock chastised The Woman in his head. He had been not only confused by his feelings recently, but by John himself. Ordinarily, he could identify some type of catalyst for John's mood swings: a breakup, a trying case, a bad back. But John had left no clues. No hint as to why he was acting so strangely.

_Could it be because of the draft?_ Sherlock pondered for a moment. _Of course not. He knows about Mycroft. It would be ridiculous for him to get upset over something so trivial as a draft letter. __He must just be upset about something else._

Sherlock thought on the subject for a few minutes longer before dismissing the ideas that had blossomed in his head. After all, it would be very difficult to make deductions about an ever-changing man when said man is not there to observe. He would just have to wait for John to get back. No matter; he had become accustomed to John's many mood swings. It would be resolved eventually, so he decided to move onto more pressing matters.

Sherlock wondered why his seemingly blatant demonstrations were receiving no recognition. Perhaps Sherlock had not made his _attempts_ quite clear enough.

Upon John and Sherlock's first meeting, it was obvious that John had been attracted to the scientist. His body gave away everything; raised pulse, dilated pupils, increase of breathing pace.

At the time, it had just seemed like a nuisance to Sherlock. Why did he need a man, obviously infatuated with him, to share a flat? However, something made him take a bit of a different perspective on the situation. Would it be so bad to live with someone else? It took him all of 3 seconds to go over the appropriate data in his head.

Sherlock knew his faults- knew that he would be positively insufferable for a 'regular' man to live with. John's stay would last 3 days at a minimum and one week at a maximum.

A flat mate such as John would certainly give him a good amount of practice in dealing with, and cataloguing, people's intimate emotions. Sherlock would have the opportunity to closely observe a man affected by this strange human condition of infatuation, and he would be able to improve his acting skills in the process. After all, he never knew when it would become advantageous in a case to be able to mimic basic emotional tribulations, in order to produce the correct evidence.

It would be risk-free to allow the man into his home. He could see no downside, other than a few minor inconveniences of temporary dual occupancy (bathroom, kitchen, etc.). He was quite content with his calculations. He automatically began to sway the man to his will. Sherlock found that it was quite simple to control someone that is besotted with you.

Within hours of John's arrival, Sherlock had managed to drag him all over town, only to come up with no useable evidence for the case on hand. However, his perception had started to shift. He did not find John annoying at all. In fact, very much the opposite. Sherlock found that John's simple routine was captivating. He did not, of course, allow John to know that he was constantly observing him, but rather persuaded him to exhibit the things that he really wanted to witness.

John was unknowing of many things. Sherlock did not mind.

He was also astounded at the way that John reacted to his deductions. He had never before met someone who classified him as 'brilliant'. He had become accustomed to the cold hearted grievances and steely glances he received from the Yard. Sherlock decided that the compliments were something that he could get used to.

After a full week had passed, Sherlock began to get nervous. Why was John still in the flat? He complained enough about the experiments in the kitchen and the body parts in the refrigerator, so why was he putting up with it?

Sherlock was frightened at the prospect of John's continual living arrangements. He was much more disturbed at the fact that he wasn't trying to drive the man out. Since when had he become so sedentary as to acclimate himself to a normal, stupid ape? However, John started doing something truly enthralling.

Instead of letting Sherlock walk all over him in an argument, he began to hold his own. John stood up for himself when Sherlock insulted him, or did something extraordinarily outrageous. He also began to try and take care of Sherlock. At first, he had found John's concern to be constant nagging.

_'Eat a meal.'_

_'Take a shower.'_

_'Get some sleep.'_

John was not all talk. He backed his threats with action, forcing Sherlock's health into something resembling borderline livelihood.

Contrawise to his normal habits, Sherlock had enjoyed an entire week without getting a hunger headache. He never struggled through an experiment while suffering from shaking hands due to their lack of fuel.

Sherlock viewed his body as a vessel; transport. John viewed it as a challenge. The genius viewed the forced sustenance as John trying to get as much food into Sherlock's body as he could, regardless of the man's incessant denial. To John, it was just three normal meals a day. Of course, Sherlock NEVER got three meals a day, even when John tried his hardest. John was lucky to talk him into one full meal a day.

Sherlock found their lives intertwining far too much. It was almost painful, how entrapped he was in John's habits. He was horrified at himself. That was just it; the problem was that _John's_ habits were manageable. He almost didn't mind the cajoling anymore. And he rarely took notice when John pulled the throw over his body, after passing out on the couch during a week long case. How had John managed to make him so compliant? He was nearly a civilian.

Sherlock shrugged roughly, attempting to shake off his strange train of thought. John had brought with him not only uncontrollable emotions and health benefits, but confusion as well. He wondered if John realized how he affected Sherlock.

Soon after the doctor's arrival, Sherlock's overactive imagination soared to new heights. Every night, he was taken over by vivid dreams of his new flatmate. It became routine to him: John during the day, John during the night, John during his sleep.

John Watson, a regular army doctor, had managed to invade Sherlock's every boundary in a matter of weeks.

It all started innocently enough. Sherlock would finally drift into unconsciousness, only to find himself reliving a row he had earlier with John. His over active imagination would provide him with just the right amount of detail to leave him wanting more of John. He was constantly yearning to observe him. He needed to hear John speak, to see his lips wrap around the words as he forced the air from his lungs to form a sentence. He needed to watch him move about the flat, to carefully begin to understand his slight limp (though the pain remained phantom, the limp remained). Yet, it still wasn't enough to quench his thirst for knowledge about John.

Sherlock thought the man remarkably difficult to understand, though his levels of normality began to expand in their everyday lives.

Suddenly, the consulting detective found that his thoughts quickly shifted headfirst from apoplectic plans of interaction (without follow-through) into the immensely different world of cogitation and subsequent action.

So he began to instigate conversations with the little army doctor after John got home from the surgery in the evenings. They were surprisingly decent exchanges, managing to stay in the particularly frustrating cusp between friends and acquaintances.

During a notably difficult case, John would stay awake long into the night, sitting with Sherlock in the living room.

Sherlock would lay or pace or tap or play his violin, thinking rapidly over every detail that he had been able to harness. John would just ensconce himself into the couch, watching him with rapt attention. It was of no worry, nor no appreciation of Sherlock's that this man would just so happen to be there, too. In that space. In his mind palace. He didn't even really notice it until a few weeks ago.

It had been around Easter and Sherlock had been working on a case. There had been a missing person's report, but it had not been normal. Not in the least. Lestrade had phoned him eight and one half days prior, giving him all of the important details about the case.

He had disappeared from a fairly populated part of town. The man was in his early twenties, recently acquainted to the 'love of his life'. Or at least, that's what the woman had called herself. Sherlock had dismissed it as emotional static. She had been inconsolable, ranting on and on about how strangely he had been acting earlier that day.

The man had last been seen leaving an apartment, walking across the street, and then- boom! Vanished out of thin air. The CCTV thread that Mycroft had managed to give him was proof- not too much, but enough to really jolt him into confusion.

Why had someone taken so much time and effort into making this man, this terribly ordinary man, disappear?

He feet stilled, bloodshot eyes snapping up to look across the room at his newest arrival. He drank in the sight of John's body draped over the couch. He had apparently fallen asleep while observing the detective at work. Sherlock glided over to him, running his eyes over the display.

_Ordinary. Simply ordinary._

That's all it took for everything to click into place. John had, in a matter of unconscious moments, cemented himself into Sherlock's existence. Damn him.

He texted Lestrade immediately.

* * *

**2:03 AM**

_It was the girl. SH_

* * *

Ordinary. That was the key.

How had he not seen it before? Sherlock leaned in closely to the smaller man's face, searching the average features for some spark of difference. He did not understand what he saw that night, staring at John's sleeping face for hours. There were no words that he understood. But something about John had instilled a sense of self-preservation in the detective and it was making him sick.

His dreams had quickly become less innocent, taking on a velvet touch. It was torturous. He was afraid to close to his, to submit himself to sleep. Afraid to see what his subconscious rubbed in his face like a dog in its mess. His emotions were beginning to escape him, peeling away like dead flesh off an old wound.

Did John know that ten days ago, Sherlock had woke for the first time in his life with a raging erection?

He had stirred from a particularly interesting dream about John's pants only to find himself in an extremely compromising position. "Frustration" did not even begin to describe what Sherlock had gone through in the last week.

It seemed as if John had been dead set on driving him bonkers, what with the slight brush of fingers as they exchanged mugs, the sidelong glances that seemed to be beyond his mortal control, and the few but powerful moments when they would notice each other.

Just notice the existence of someone else in their vicinity. Sherlock would breath, and John would respond with his own inhalation. The consulting detective found it maddening. Why was he taking such care in noticing John's presence? Co existence was such a hassle. Especially when paired with the unresolved sexual tension that had been rapidly brewing ever since that night.

He fought the rational majority of his brain with difficulty; Sherlock had always looked at sexual attraction as a deterrent to The Work. He also viewed sexual situations as highly unsanitary and obnoxiously binding. How did so many people manage to juggle a sexual life on top of all the other needless rubbish they had brewing around in their head? It was a foreign concept to him. However, somewhere in his subconscious, his body had signalled to him that he needed to find a way to solve this tension and to free his mind to function at its highest capacity. John was stealing focus.

How in the world could he clear his mind? The thought alone was overwhelming. Sherlock often heard regular people talking about 'emptying their minds' and 'clearing their heads'. He could not imagine why someone would want such a thing.

At least, he didn't until he'd met John Watson.

Now, he decided that he would try his hand at...it. Whatever "it" tended to entail. He, of course, knew the mechanics of sex. Rather, he had no idea how to go about it. He recognized that his body needed some kind of release, but was unsure of ways to satisfy this obnoxiously human craving. He knew that John would somehow be the answer to his questions. Therefore, he went to someone who he thought perhaps could help.

Sherlock has spoken with Irene earlier in the week. He was still keeping her presence a secret from John. Nothing good could come of his knowledge of that particular event, so he decided that since this was quite clearly her "area" that she could help him.

_"How do you seduce someone?" Sherlock sipped his coffee slowly, staring resolutely out of the window. His brow furrowed at her prolonged silence._

_"Well, you could always parade around naked."_

_"That sure seemed to do you a fat lot of good."_

_"Touche. John, then? Well, of course. Why should I even ask?"_

_"That's a better question." He frowned at her. "Just...how?" She looked at him carefully, eyes full of something that he didn't quite recognize. It was gone before he could get a good analysis._

_"Be domestic. John's normal." She grinned. "I'm not normal."_

_"No. You are not. Thank you for not helping." He stood quickly, wrapping his long coat around his lanky frame in one smooth motion. "Goodbye for now."_

_"Sorry." She nearly whispered it, but it was enough to stop him in his tracks. "Really, though. You have to get him close to home. Make him a cuppa from time to time. Acquiesce to his dinner plans. Angelo seems keen enough." She smiled deeper at the way his shoulders visibly tense. "Trust me, Sherlock. Just once."_

_He nearly turned back to her, but stalked off instead._

From then on, he _had_ been trying to be domestic. That was the whole problem! It certainly wasn't working for him. It wasn't as if he could just call John's name and the man would appear.

He fell back onto the couch, harrumphing.

_Fat lot of good that would do me anyway. I wouldn't even know what to do with him. _He pondered the idea briefly before becoming overwhelmed. He resumed his thoughts on John.

_Perhaps John's actions are a manifestation of his frustration, as well. _He was hopeful that John would be able to explain himself. Maybe if he showed a bit of compassion, John would be a bit more compliant to his needs.

_Normal. _He scoffed. _What good is normal, anyway?_

* * *

"Sebastian?" the sing-songy voice echoed eerily through the large, dimly lit room. The voice bounced off the tall ceiling in a strange way, returning as a warped version of its original production.

The distorted call was answered by a heavy clanking of boots. The noise rang out through the shadows, accompanied by the shrill click of metal slamming together repeatedly.

"Pet, do hurry. Don't you want your treat?" The footsteps quickened, becoming thunderous as it neared.

A tall man with dirty blonde hair and thick stubble shifted eagerly into the small light of the lamp. He had a strong but wiry build, light on his feet, but ready for combat. He looked peculiar in his grimy state when compared with the immaculate man next to him.

James Moriarty laid luxuriously on his make-shift throne; Italian furs had been carefully laid out over one of the many hospital beds they had on hand. He wore a deep purple silk suit and an extravagant watch, its expensive logo printed in crystal clarity. Its glass face glinted in the dim light as he shifted, turning to face the rugged man.

"What do you have for me, darling? Tell me something good, or I will keep your treat for today."

The man's eyes lit up with a desperate yearning.

"No." He said in a panic, summoning all of his gathered knowledge. He could not survive without it. He knew that this knowledge was all that could keep him together. "I have been watching him closely. John Watson has received his letter and is beginning to feel the effects of it; I saw him talking with his housekeeper while The Man was out. It seems as though John might not feel so keen to go back to war now."

Jim sat very still for a few moments, as if taking the time to register the words would make it more believable to him. His eyes opened and Sebastian's heart stopped, but Jim continued to say quiet, merely locking his dead gaze. Suddenly, he grinned and leaned forward, palms up as he reached for Sebastian. The blonde's eyes closed in momentary bliss as Jim's hands caressed his dirty face.

The hot air around them seemed to pulse as surprisingly soft hands coasted over the sharp planes of the man's features. He softly traced the outline of his jawline, the dip in his lower lip, the curve of his brow. Energy seemed to seep through the gentle touch, flowing between the two men with a terrifying vigor. Sebastian's heart pulsed along with the flow of the encompassing air, breathing deeply as the scent of Moriarty's mint tea washed over his face.

SLAP.

Jim giggled almost impishly, staring at the emerging red splotch on Moran's cheek. Sebastian did not raise his gaze to meet the one that was fixated on his injury. Moriarty turned his head to the side, as if looking at his work from another angle. He abruptly struck out again, curling the fingers of his left hand, forcing deep scratches into the right side of Sebastian's angled face. His pristinely manicured hand was flexing in appreciation.

Jim laughed deeply as the soldier slowly met his gaze and locked their eyes together. Sebastian positively _burned _with need. It was delicious.

Cinnamon drops began to crest over the ridges of Sebastian's scratches, the blood leaking slowly but surely through the skin, globules of fluid growing larger and larger until the drops began to roll down his face, akin to tears. Still, the man did not shy away from their staring contest. His hands gripped the bed a little too firmly; furs twisting and unfurling as he abused the edge with his tension.

Jim lifted Sebastian's head with his hands, guiding the man's chin slightly up as he repositioned himself on the bed, giving himself a higher angle. He knew that this was about control. Sebastian loved a power play, and Jim was more than happy to provide it.

"Tell me." He beamed a bit madly, clutching Sebastian's head much tighter than was necessary. The man made no complaint. In fact, he very nearly purred at the firm touch, nuzzling his head into the palm of Jim's hand as his right cheek began to numb.

"You are my master. I am the slave. I need you. You could do without me," Sebastian rattled off enthusiastically, almost as if he was reciting a revered poem or bit of verse. "I need you, and I need _it_." His eyes were glazed.

"Very good." Moriarty stroked his hair once before sliding his left index finger along the raised planes of his servant's face, collecting a bit of blood on his fingertip. He slowly brought it to his closed mouth, wiping a bit of blood along the seam of his lips, making sure that Sebastian was watching him closely before allowing his tongue to dart over the appendage with sheer hunger burning in his eyes.

It was a lewd dance of crimson liquid, spreading over the man's thin lips in a sensual threat. The metallic flavor overwhelmed his senses, making him moan lightly before sucking the rest of the blood from his finger. Sebastian was spellbound, watching with sheer fascination as Jim maneuvered his bloody lips to form a sentence. Moran was barely listening.

"Would you like your treat now, pet?" He ran his finger across Sebastian's other cheek, leaving a wet trail across his skin. He blew on it lightly before standing. Sebastian shivered violently, following the man out into a crisp, white hallway. They walked for a short distance before Jim burst through the doors to a much smaller room than they were in before. He walked directly to the back of the room, turning to a painting next to a storage cabinet.

The abstract piece was shoved aside, and Moriarty's fingers flew over buttons as he entered the combination. Finally, the door popped open. Jim retrieved the bribe, holding it behind his back as he observed the man in front of him.

_Infinitely pliant in my hands. _He basked for a moment in his own genius before gathering himself.

"Sit, Sebastian," Jim ordered harshly. The man obeyed immediately, kneeling on the tile and looking up at his small frame. "Shake." He held out his hand and Sebastian locked their fingers together. Jim yanked his arm roughly, causing the man's body to propel forward, leaving him with only one hand to stop his fall to the ground. The man grinned wickedly and ripped back the sleeve of Sebastian's shirt, gently tracing over the tracks in his arm.

"What do you want?" Jim asked, a challenge burning in his eyes. "Be specific."

"I need The Feeling." He practically whimpered, tightening his fingers over Jim's. "And you."

Jim snickered. "Needy today, pet?" He lightly fingered the spidery veins in the crease of Sebastian's arm. "I think I can help with that." Seeming satisfied, he reached around and produced a small syringe from his back pocket. "Do you want me to count down?" Jim teased, closely watching the expression on Sebastian's face as he stabbed around the virtually non-existent blood vessels, looking for an entry point.

Sebastian shook with sheer anticipation. He managed a slight nod.

"Ten, nine, eight..." Jim emptied the syringe, earning a gasp from the man on his knees in front of him. He extracted the device, capping it before tossing the remains across the room. He left to a chorus of whispered appreciations and stray thoughts. Sebastian curled in on himself on the cold tile floor, mind racing with its fresh chemical enhancements. He breathed deeply, wondering if his high could be put to good use.

His senses were flooded. Literally, he was drowning in sensual awareness. He could taste the metallic twang of blood from where it had leaked into his mouth, laced with the salt from his skin. His nose was filled with the scent of must, mold, dust, and heat, blazing trails across his mind. His fingers were tingling- incredibly sensitive to anything and everything that passed its way.

He continued to evaluate, calculate, and catalog all of his sensual data until it was at a marginally manageable level. After about thirty minutes Sebastian was able to find himself and stand, legs already taking him on the familiar journey to where he knew Jim would be waiting for him.

The halls protested Sebastian's presence by tossing the noises he produced directly back at him, affecting his consciousness much worse now than it had been before. It threatened to overwhelm him, but he continued on. Eventually, he stood in front of the correct door. He straightened his fatigue before entering the room, eyes lighting up with all of the things that competed for attention in his sight.

He could see everything around him, just like his master.

It was beautiful.

The whole world opened up before him, showing him intricate places and ideas that he had never dreamed of perceiving before The Feeling. Jim cleared his throat, already lying naked on the large bed. He licked his lips devilishly and motioned for Sebastian's approach.

He obeyed his master.


End file.
